


What Happened to the Other One

by Evandar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Id Fic, M/M, Mycroft Being Creepy, One-Sided Attraction, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5046934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don’t be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the <i>other</i> one." - Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock 3.3: His Last Vow</p><p>This is what happened to the other Holmes brother. Or, how Greg Lestrade's working relationship with Mycroft Holmes really began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been turning Mycroft's reference to another possible brother over and over in my head since the episode aired. Alas, I don't usually write Sherlock fic, so I was stuck on how to explore it. Iddy Bang basically gave me an excuse to go nuts on the possibilities.
> 
> Also, this is meant for fun and is entirely inaccurate. It's Id-fic. Go with it.

There’s not much left of the victim’s face. Or his hands. There’s a few scattered teeth on the pavement that – with luck – forensics might be able to put together into something resembling a dental record. Greg sighs at the corpse. _Poor bastard_.

…

When the records come back, they bring a name. Sherrinford Holmes. He’s twenty three and has a criminal record the length of Greg’s arm; it’s mostly petty stuff. A smart kid, according to the school records Greg tracks down (handy thing, having such a unique name), but one that seems to have got lost somewhere in between the DUIs and the dealing and the aggravated assaults.

Possibly, he thinks, something to do with his family. There’s a Sherlock Holmes – younger – reading Chemistry at fucking Cambridge, and a Mycroft – older – who’s an Oxford graduate currently studying for his Masters in Politics at Kings College. He knows _that_ because records of the academic articles they’ve written come up when he searches (Sherlock seems to be the most prolific despite being an undergraduate), and they’re not the worst. They’re all the sons of Dr Ophelia Holmes, the theoretical physicist – a celebrated academic in her field, apparently.

He squints at the photos of the crime scene, and wonders – for a moment – what sort of brilliance the brain splattered out onto a Chiswick pavement was capable of, before he gathers them up into a folder.

He should probably talk to the parents first, given the circumstances, but he figures that Sergeant Michaels has got that covered. Instead, he’s going to talk to Mycroft.

He, at least, is in London.

…

He finds Mycroft Holmes in a private study room in Kings College library. There’s a selection of spectacularly dull looking books spread out around him, and Mycroft is taking notes – his long-fingered hand flying across the page; his gaze never leaving the page of his book.

At least, it doesn’t seem to until Greg lets the door close behind him.

Mycroft Holmes has eyes like no one else he’s ever seen. Set in a handsome, slightly pointy face, they’re a mercurial shade of pale grey and Greg swears they can see straight into his soul. He wonders if Sherrinford’s eyes, grey in the report, had ever looked so piercing. It helps him focus on what he’s supposed to be doing.

(In another life, if he and Mycroft Holmes had met off-duty in a certain kind of club, he would have been hitting on him so hard by now.)

“Sergeant Lestrade, Scotland Yard,” he says, fishing his I.D. out of his inside pocket. Holmes beckons him closer and actually takes his I.D. from him, studying it closely. Their fingers brush when he hands it back, and Greg has to fight to control his breathing. Holmes is cool to the touch, but still. Heat spreads through his hands to the rest of his body and then down into his groin. 

“Can I help you with something, Sergeant?” Holmes asks. His tone is cool; his accent is crisp and clear, and Greg has to take a step back so that his growing arousal isn’t so obvious. He has a thing for posh blokes. 

It helps, he thinks, that Holmes is slightly intimidating. That, at least, gives him a _reason_ to back off.

“I’m afraid, Mr Holmes, I have some bad news,” he replies. “Your brother, Sherrinford, was found dead last week.”

Holmes is silent. His face is strangely impassive, but Greg can see a storm building in his eyes. Something like grief – but closer to rage. “I see,” Holmes says. His hands press flat to the table, probably to stop them from shaking. His fingertips bleach white from the pressure, and Greg wants to stop him from doing it, but he can’t help but think that this is a way to keep composure…and that keeping composure is, for Mycroft Holmes, something vital.

“I’m sorry,” Greg says. “There’s no easy way to put this. He was murdered. His body was mutilated. There… I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr Holmes, if that’s alright.”

“Yes,” Holmes whispers. He clears his throat. “Yes, of course. Do my parents know? Sherlock?”

“My colleagues are speaking to your parents. They’ll be getting in touch with your brother as well,” Greg assures him. 

Holmes nods. He lifts a hand from the table and waves it towards the room’s spare chair. It’s an expansive, vaguely aristocratic gesture, and Greg can’t help but wonder if he practises moving like that.

“Were you aware, Mr Holmes, that your brother was in London?” he asks as he sits. 

Holmes nods. There’s a long enough pause for Greg to fish his notebook and pen out of his pocket before Holmes actually speaks. “He came to ask me for money,” Holmes says. “I refused him. He left and I didn’t see him again, but…I assumed he would remain in London.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It’s somewhat easier here, for men in Sherrinford’s line of work, than, say, Cambridge or rural Hampshire. People can get lost in London, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”

“You knew about his criminal record, then?” Greg asks.

Holmes’ lips press into a thin line. “ _Naturally_.”

There’s a beat of silence. Greg exhales slowly. “The more you can tell me, Mr Holmes, the faster we’ll be able to catch your brother’s killer.”

Holmes’ disapproving expression doesn’t change. But something flickers in his gaze and he sits back in his chair, and Greg might be imagining it, but some of the tension in the room seems to evaporate.

“Sherrinford was a difficult person to get along with,” Holmes says after a moment. “He didn’t really fit in with the rest of the family, so he took to crime because it was easier. It started small. Petty thefts and such like. He began to escalate shortly after I left for Oxford.”

“When you say he didn’t fit in…”

“He was completely normal,” Holmes replies. He smiles for the first time as he says it, and Greg suppresses a shudder. It’s not arousal this time – he suspects that Mycroft Holmes would be pretty as Hell if he smiled _genuinely_ \- but something more like fear. There’s a reptilian quality to that close-mouthed smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Normal?” he asks.

“Come now, Sergeant, stop pretending that you came into this meeting without having done any research into my family. Into Mummy, Sherlock, my _self_. Sherrinford, like Father, was one of those _many_ people who go through life without seeing anything properly. _Unlike_ Father, he couldn’t handle being around others who were more intelligent than himself.”

Holmes leans forward. That reptilian smile is still fixed in place, and Greg’s ready to about crawl out of his skin.

“Father and Mummy cut Sherrinford off when they found out he’d been supplying Sherlock,” Mycroft hisses. “That’s why he came to me.”

Greg leans in. It takes most of his willpower to move _towards_ Holmes instead of towards the door, but he does it. He even manages to keep a straight face.

“And what did you do?” he asks.

“I told him to fuck off,” Holmes replies. For a brief moment, his smile becomes more genuine – albeit tinged with grief – and he’s _exactly_ as pretty as Greg thought he’d be. “Slammed the door in his face and didn’t open it again. He kept knocking, on and off, for about ten minutes or so, and then he left.”

He takes a deep breath. It hitches ever so slightly, and the urge to comfort him almost overwhelms Greg’s earlier fear. 

“He was my brother, Sergeant,” Holmes says. “I loved him dearly. I couldn’t _stand_ him, but I loved him. He didn’t deserve to die.”

“No,” Greg murmurs, thinking of the photos on his desk. “He didn’t. Do you know of, well, did he mention any enemies to you? Someone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“No,” Holmes says. “We didn’t talk much, after he started spiralling into degeneracy, let alone after what he did to Sherlock. But I imagine that someone in Sherrinford’s walk of life would gain rather more enemies than friends. Don’t you?”

It’s hard to argue. From what he’s now heard, it sounds like Sherrinford Holmes’ criminal record is the abridged version. 

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he says after a moment. “I’ll let you get back to your work.” Holmes nods, jerkily, and Greg expects he’s more likely to contact his parents than continue researching for an essay, but allowing Holmes to save face is the only form of comfort he can give while on the clock.

He stands. So does Holmes, and it’s a bloody _shock_ to find out how tall he is. Greg actively has to tilt his head back to look up at him as Holmes shakes his hand – and there’s a wiry strength in those long fingers that makes his cock start to take notice again.

“I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions,” he says.

“Of course,” Holmes replies. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

…

Back at the station he reviews his notes. Halfway down one page, he’s scribbled _CREEPY AS FUCK_.

Holmes _is_ creepy. He’s also _exactly_ Greg’s type.

He tucks his notebook back into his pocket and spreads the pictures of Sherrinford Holmes back out over his desk. They kill his lingering arousal from his meeting with Mycroft Holmes pretty much instantly, and turn him cold instead. He stares and stares at the positioning of the body. At the violence of the death. At the way Sherrinford’s blood glued his dark curls to the pavement.

He’d been a handsome bloke when he was alive, if his police mugshot is anything to go by. Not in the same league as his older brother, but with the same high cheekbones and the same straight, pointed nose.

The murderer, he thinks, must have _known_ Sherrinford. And he must have absolutely _hated_ him.

…

He next sees Mycoft Holmes in the hospital. 

Greg is there for the final autopsy report; Holmes for the body. He’s _meant_ to have his family with him. At least, Greg had been told that the Holmses would all be there. Instead, it’s only Mycroft. He’s sitting in a plastic seat, with his head bowed over his clasped hands. He looks almost like he’s praying.

His dark hair shines copper under the halogen lighting. It makes him look like the strangest of angels.

“Mr Holmes,” Greg says.

Holmes looks up at him. His gaze crawls up Greg’s body, inexorably slow, and by the time he reaches his face, Greg knows he is blushing.

“Sergeant Lestrade,” Holmes replies, calm as ever.

“I thought your family would be with you,” Greg blurts out.

Holmes’ eyes close, briefly. He looks pained. “They’re in Cambridge,” he says. “With Sherlock. They’ve entrusted me with Sherrinford’s arrangements.”

There’s a lot that Holmes isn’t saying. Greg swallows. “Do you want company?” he asks.

He doesn’t want to go back and look at the body of Sherrinford Holmes ever again. But. But his older brother doesn’t deserve to have to handle this alone, and Greg’s going to be haunted by the crime scene photographs anyway, and offering is the very least that he can do.

“I – Thank you, Sergeant. I would appreciate it.”

…

They sit opposite each other, fingers curled around coffee mugs. Around them, St Barts bustles. Doctors, nurses, interns, patients, and families; a myriad of people swarming through the halls, and here he is, in a quiet moment, with Mycroft Holmes.

Everything about Holmes seems quiet. It makes Greg think about that proverb – still waters, and all that. 

“Sherlock is in hospital,” Holmes says after a moment. “Our parents went to Cambridge to collect him, only to have to visit him in the ICU.”

“Is he okay?” Greg asks. 

“Unconscious, but stable. An overdose. Cocaine.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and Greg is sent spiralling back to the library and Holmes’ accusations against his middle brother. _“Father and Mummy cut Sherrinford off when they found out he’d been supplying Sherlock.”_ Greg reaches out over the table on instinct, and he’s rewarded when Holmes grasps onto his fingers with incredible strength. 

His hands, despite the warmth of his drink, are cold. His eyes, however… They’re _blazing_.

“He’s dead,” Holmes whispers. “He’s dead and I’m still so _angry_ with him for what he’s done to our brother.”

Greg squeezes his hand; runs his thumb over his knuckles, and he watches as the tension abruptly floods from Holmes’ body. This, holding the hand of a grieving family member, isn’t the most appropriate thing he’s ever done while on duty. But it feels right – especially now that Holmes has loosened his grip slightly, and the feeling is beginning to return to Greg’s fingers.

“Can you mourn someone and hate them at the same time, Sergeant?” Holmes asks.

“Yeah,” Greg replies. “I think so.”

…

Sherrinford Holmes, he learns, was buried with very little ceremony in the family plot at the Holmes’ local church in Hampshire. There’s a small announcement in the obits and nothing else. 

He learns more details from Mycroft, over coffee, a few days afterwards. He’d been the only one there, after all; his parents, apparently, had chosen to spend time with their _living_ child, who was still in critical care.

The wording makes Greg frown – it’s almost as if Mycroft is dead as well.

“Is there any news of the case?” Mycroft asks him.

(After their third meeting, the titles dropped. They’ve been Mycroft and Greg ever since. It’s good. Tentative, but good – though if the DI finds out, Greg’s going to be absolutely bollocked _and_ dropped from the case. You _don’t_ fraternise with the relatives. No exceptions.)

Greg sighs and shakes his head. “You know I can’t talk about it.”

Mycroft hums and takes a long, slow sip of cappuccino. He’s probably reading everything he wants to know about his brother’s case from the state of Greg’s necktie, or something. He does that, sometimes.

Not that there’s anything to find. 

Whoever killed Sherrinford was clever enough not to leave DNA or fingerprints at the scene. They haven’t left a trace of themselves behind – even the CCTV network isn’t revealing anything. They _hated_ Sherrinford enough to mutilate his face and his hands; they didn’t want him immediately identified, either, hence the severity of the localised damage, but they still left enough teeth to reconstruct the dental records.

Either they were sloppy on that one thing, or they wanted Sherrinfod to be - _eventually_ \- identified.

There was no murder weapon. He’d been shot, probably with a pistol or something else with a small calibre, but nether bullet nor casing had been found at the scene for them to run through forensics.

So not that sloppy. The eventual identification theory was the most likely. And that meant that the killer was _very_ clever.

He studies Mycroft. Something clicks in the back of his mind, and he leans back in his chair to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Oh God,” he says.

Mycroft smiles, reptilian and terrifying. “Very good, Sergeant,” he says. “You’ve got it at last.”


	2. Chapter 2

The folder arrives on his desk the next day. It’s a plain, boring manila folder of average thickness; its only distinguishing mark is the _Top Secret_ stamp on the inside, partially hidden by a note written in black ink, in an elaborately looping scrawl.

_There is more than what meets the eye, dear Gregory – MH_

Even if the initials hadn’t given it away, he’d have known who it was from. Mycroft Holmes is the only person other than his grandmother who ever calls him Gregory. The real question is how on earth Holmes managed to get a hold of top secret case files, not to mention drop them off on a Sergeant’s desk in the middle of New Scotland Yard while remaining a wanted man.

Impressive. Terrifying, really, but then, Greg is getting used to the idea that Mycoft Holmes is someone he should be very, very afraid of.

“Did you see who dropped this off?” he asks Michaels.

She shakes her head. “No clue, mate,” she says. “It was here when I came in. Why?”

“No reason,” he replies, shaking his head.

At least now he has a rough time frame to look at, if the security cameras haven’t been bugged, that is.

He’s getting a good idea of what Holmes is really capable of. He’d lost him, that day. After Holmes had calmly confessed to murdering his brother in cold blood, he’d left. He’d walked out of the café and into the crowds before Greg had been able to stop him. He’d ignored Greg’s pleas for him to wait; he’d vanished from his flat and not answered any phone calls. Mycroft Holmes had evaporated into thin air, that day.

At least now, Greg knew that he was able to access secure files in whatever place he’d vanished to.

…

The file is largely blacked out. What he can read in between the gaps is unsettling. It makes him glad he can’t read more, because what he learns about Mycroft and Sherrinford Holmes makes him happy that there’s no chance of meeting _one_ of them in a dark alley anymore.

Mycroft hadn’t killed his brother because of the drugs. He’d killed him because Sherrinford had been too light fingered that day in Mycroft’s flat; because Sherrinford had been light fingered _before_ , and he’d sold his stolen information off to the highest bidder.

The file was blank on who that bidder had been. 

Greg likes to think of himself as a good copper. As a good man, even. But the longer he’s in his job, the more he realises that the people around him aren’t good. Or, at least, they like to ignore their potential for it.

Mycroft Holmes, he’s learned, is at least on the _side_ of good. There’s a distinction there that he doesn’t want to think too hard about. The more he follows this case, the more he gets the feeling that he’s standing on the edge of a great abyss – and that there’s something out there, lurking in the dark, wearing Mycroft’s reptilian smile and waiting for him to start staring back.

He closes the folder.

He wants to remain a good man.

…

The murder of Sherrinford Holmes is left unsolved. Officially. The Comissioner himself had called the team into his office and told them to shut it down. And since Greg never recorded Mycroft’s confession, there’s nothing to go on. No place to argue from. No justice, and sure as Hell, no closure either.

..

By the time Mycroft saunters back into his life, the case has been cold for over a year.

Greg wants to hit him. Wants to punch him straight in his pointy nose, but he doesn’t. He’s a _good man_. Still, the temptation is there. 

“Gregory,” Holmes says. He sounds…God, his voice is as perfect as ever and it goes straight to Greg’s cock just like it always did, but there’s anger now to go with his usual desire. Holmes sounds so _fucking_ blasé, as if a murder confession wasn’t the last thing Greg had heard him say.

He looks beyond Holmes to the sleek black car pulled up at the curb, then back towards his office. He’s being offered a choice here, and he knows that as much as he should turn away and head back indoors, he won’t. Mycroft _may_ be sinister and murderous, but he’s also the most fascinating person that Greg’s ever met. The times they met – the way Mycroft had been beautiful and vulnerable and controlled while so furiously angry – have been haunting him.

It wasn’t all an act. It can’t have been.

“Mycroft,” he says. He glances back towards the Yard. “You’re very confident of your immunity, aren’t you?”

Mycroft smiles that terrible, lizard smile, and inclines his head ever so slightly. “If you’d care to get in the car, I’ve made reservations.”

A multitude of questions buzz through Greg’s mind, but one looms greater than all the others. “Why?” he asks.

“Get in the car and find out,” Mycroft replies. The temptation to punch him rises again, but Greg squashes it quickly. Mycroft is already turning away and getting into the car himself, which means he has seconds to choose and…

And it’s not a choice at all.

“Oh, fuck this,” he mutters, and follows Mycroft Holmes into the back seat.

…

Mycroft looks just as at home in a posh dining room filled with gilt and white linen and crystal glasses as he does in grubby cafes or dusty, university libraries. _More_ at home, in fact. That strange, aristocratic way that he moves looks like it belongs here.

Greg, on the other hand, is hyper aware that he does _not_ belong. Everything from his cheap work suit to the way he gets his hair cut means that he stands out like a sore thumb in a place like this. He’s also not used to being wined and dined – though, curiously, the offer of wine only comes _after_ Mycroft has double-checked that his shift has finished.

“It’s almost like you care,” he says.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft replies, and Greg lets the silence fall uncomfortably over them because _fuck_.

It doesn’t last. And, ridiculously uncomfortable as he is, Greg is the one to break it.

“How’s Sherlock?” he asks.

“Back at university,” Mycroft replies. “Mummy convinced him to give his degree another go – and the college to give him another chance at it. A series of guest lectures and some donations and so forth. Rehab seems to have worked, for now.”

“Good,” Greg says. “That’s. That’s really good.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. He straightens the cutlery along his side of the table, carefully arranging each piece so that it lies just _so_ on the pristine tablecloth. One centimetre from the edge; five millimetres from the next piece of cutlery. It’s something that Greg’s seen him do before, with sugar packets and coffee stirrers, and he can’t help but wonder how aware of his actions Mycroft actually is.

He also wonders how someone so quintessentially neat and tidy could make such a fucking mess of another human being.

“Why am I here?” he asks. It comes out as more of a sigh than a question.

“For lunch,” Mycroft tells him. “And because you’re lucky enough that your incessant need for answers is endearing.” He smiles, faintly - _genuinely_ \- and Greg feels his heart flutter. “And because you were very kind.”

“Kind,” he echoes. “Kind to you. You… I read the file you left. Maybe he had to die. But like that?”

“His death was actually very quick,” Mycroft murmurs. “I made sure of that. He _was_ my brother, after all.”

“Right. Of course.”

“You may not believe me, Sergeant, but there was a time when I loved Sherrinford dearly,” Mycroft says. He unfolds his napkin deftly and drapes it over his lap just in time for their starters to arrive. Greg, not expecting the intrusion, jolts back inelegantly, whipping his elbows off the table in a way that makes him feel like a fucking kid again. 

He waits for the waiter to vanish again before prompting Mycroft to continue.

“I still _do_ love him,” Mycroft says. “But, alas, it’s my job to do unsavoury things in the name of national security.”

 _Unsavoury._ Greg looked down at his soup and tried not to think about how Mycroft had practically cut the face off his brother’s corpse. That said…

“You left enough teeth behind so that we’d identify him,” he says. “So your parents could give him a funeral.”

“A funeral they didn’t even attend,” Mycroft reminds him, and the bitterness in his voice almost makes Greg fear for the older Holmses’ safety. “Though Sherlock _was_ something of a priority at the time.”

“Would you kill him too?” Greg asks.

It’s a stupid question and he knows it. Mycroft looks up at him, and his expression has all the warmth and feeling of a glacier. Yes, of _course_ he would.

“It would break my heart to do so,” Mycroft admits after a moment, thawing just enough to remind Greg that there’s actually a person under there. That Mycroft is a young man only a couple of years younger than Greg himself.

He’s beginning to think that Mycroft is doing this deliberately. Switching from sociopath to weary, wounded older brother and back again, all in a matter of seconds, just to keep Greg interested. Just to keep him gullible enough to go along with it.

“Sherlock was always my favourite sibling,” Mycroft tells him, as if it makes anything any better – though it does explain some of the rage that went into Sherrinford’s mutilation. “One day, Sergeant, he will come to you. And I’m going to need you to help him.”

“Me?” It comes out a little louder than strictly suitable in an establishment like the one they’re in, and his outburst earns him cold looks from the other patrons. Not from Mycroft, though. That genuine smile is back, playing coyly at the corners of his mouth, and _fuck_ if Greg doesn’t want to find out what it tastes like almost as much as he wants to run away and never look back.

“You, yes,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock fancies himself as a sort of detective. He’s contacted the police about cases before, only to be ignored. It may be in your best interests, Sergeant, to listen to him if he ever shows interest in one of _your_ cases.”

“That’s not how the force works,” Greg argues. At least, he tries to argue. He knows fine well that Mycroft will win eventually, because he knows enough about him to know that losing is never an option.

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft agrees. “But things are rarely so simple. Did you know, the first case Sherlock took an interest in, was a murder disguised as an accidental death? He was thirteen at the time, and he _obsessed_ over it. So much so, in fact, that his name is still stamped all over the official case files. He refused not to interfere.”

“Sounds like you have something in common, then,” Greg mutters. He doesn’t _exactly_ mean it as unkindly as it sounds, and Mycroft seems to pick up on that because for a split second he looks absolutely delighted.

And very, incredibly young.

But it’s only for a moment and soon his infuriating mask is back in place and looking far, far more serious.

“The individual who committed that murder,” Mycroft says, “is the same one that Sherrinford was passing information to. I’m sure of it. I don’t have all the pieces yet, but the puzzle is spreading wider and wider. There are connections that I can’t see yet, but at the middle of it all, lies Sherlock and his first murderer.”

Greg swallows. “What’s that got to do with me?” he asks.

“You got involved,” Mycroft says. “And now…Well, Sergeant, you can hardly back out now, can you? After investing so much interest in the workings of my sad little family. The cases Sherlock will bring you to will make your career, I can guarantee it.”

“And you?”

Mycroft shrugs. It looks awkward on him, like it’s a gesture he’s not used to making.

“I, Sergeant, shall remain in the shadows,” he says. “As is my due. And with any luck, I won’t be forced to kill another brother.” 

…  
 **Ten Years Later**  
…

It’s a sad state of affairs that Greg is used to coming home to find his locks picked. Usually, it’s when Sherlock has done something stupid. Tonight is no exception. 

He pushes his door further open and hangs his coat on the hook behind it and walks in to his kitchen to find Mycroft leaning against the bench. His suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair; his tie and his cuffs are undone and he looks absolutely perfect. As always.

“I could always give you a key, you know,” he says by way of greeting. “To save you the hassle.”

“Come now, Gregory, you know how I detest things being made _easy_.”

Greg did know, by now. For all his self-professed laziness and his disdain for legwork, Mycroft prefers his puzzles to be on a global scale. He moves armies like they’re chess pieces.

Greg only wonders, these days, what that makes him. He knows he’s a pawn, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’s also the closest thing Mycroft has to a friend. The closest thing he’s ever had, perhaps, to something more than a friend.

(He still dreams about that other world; the one where he met Mycroft Holmes in a different time and place and somehow managed to prevent him from becoming the most terrifying man on the planet. But every time, when he wakes up, he realises that he could never love _that_ Mycroft half as much as he does _this_ one.)

It would be nice to touch, just once.

“Sherlock’s fine,” he says. “And John.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft says. “Despite having met the great consulting criminal himself.”

Greg frowns. “How long have you known about him?” he asks. “Moriarty?”

“I’ve known ever since Sherlock started kicking up such a fuss about a missing pair of shoes,” Mycroft says. “He told you about Carl Powers, did he not?”

“It was all a bit hard to miss what with people being blown up and everything,” Greg snaps at him. “Seventeen years? That’s how long you’ve known?”

“About James Clovis Moriarty and Carl Powers, yes,” Mycroft says. “It wasn’t overly hard to figure out the killer once I knew the poison – Moriarty’s mother regularly bought small amounts of the botulinum toxin as part of her beauty regime, and little Jimmy certainly had the motive… But his name only started coming up again around the time Sherrinford died. And by that time, of course, things had spread quite out of control.”

There’s anger flooding through him. Again. So many people dead – so many in danger, _including_ Sherlock – and things all lead back to Mycroft. 

“Why?” he asks. “If you knew he was a murderer when he was a kid, why did you ignore it? You could have done something. Anything. Why let him walk?”

Mycroft pushes away from the counter. He approaches Greg slowly, raises his hands to cup his jaw, and forces Greg to meet his gaze.

There’s nothing there. _Nothing_ , except for a vague sense of boredom.

“I wanted to hope, my dear,” he says. His breath washes over Greg’s mouth and he can’t stop himself from trembling. They’re so _close_ and in all the years that they’ve known each other, Mycroft has never touched him like this.

“He reminded me of myself,” Mycroft continues. “I let him get away with it because I so desperately wanted to see if a child like me could ever become something other than a monster.” He smiles, and somehow the fact that it’s only inches away makes that smile seem so much more terrifying. Perhaps because now, Greg can see that _this_ smile – the reptile one that makes his instincts scream – is Mycroft’s true one.

“I was right,” Mycroft says. “We can’t. And now, Inspector, we all have to suffer the consequences of that experiment of mine.”

He lets Greg go, and it’s only a matter of seconds before Greg is on the other side of his kitchen. His earlier desire, ten years of conflicted feelings, his _fear_ \- every memory he has of Mycroft is curdling in his brain and making him feel nauseas. “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“To make sure that you’re ready, Inspector,” Mycroft replies. “To protect another brother from me.” He picks up his jacket, slips it back on over his narrow shoulders, and re-fastens his cuffs with practised ease.

He looks back at Greg from the door. He… If Greg thought him capable of feeling anything, Greg would say that he looked sad.

“It appears that you finally are,” he says. “Goodnight, Inspector.”


End file.
